


ready or not, here I come

by alanabloom



Category: Emma Approved
Genre: Alex POV, F/M, POV Second Person, Pre-Series, Vignette, childhood through post grad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:30:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alanabloom/pseuds/alanabloom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're eight and there is <em>no freaking way</em> you're sitting with her on the bus.</p><p>"Just for the first week or two, until she settles in, Alex.  You know how Mr. Woodhouse worries."  </p><p>"<em>Mom</em>."  You infuse the word with about three extra syllables, that's how bad this is.  Not only is Emma a kindergarten baby, but she's a girl (a really <em>girly</em> one, besides), and she's sure to come to school with some super pink outfit and about a thousand glitter pens and you <em>won't</em> do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ready or not, here I come

You're five years old and you're looking for Emma.

"12, 11, 10, 9..."

Hide and seek in one room isn't  _that_ fun, but it's not like she's very good at it anyway.  And the Woodhouse's playroom is pretty big, with lots of closests and curtains and stuff to hide in.  

"5, 4, 3, 2, 1."  The countdown finished, you uncover your face, eyes already darting.  "Ready or not, here I come!"

Almost immediately, you hear a muffled giggle from across the room.  The lid of a plastic toy box shifts slightly, and you grin.  

It never takes long to find her.

 

* * *

 

You're six and you make her cry over a firefly.  

"Hey, Emma,  _look_."  You cup a hand over the patch of skin on your other arm, making it dark enough so she can see it glowing bright and yellow.  "It's like a glow in the dark tattoo!" 

To your surprise, she bursts into immediate, anguished tears.  "Alex, you _killed_ it!" 

"But..."  You look down at the smashed remnants of the bug, spread over your skin, and immediately wipe your forearm on your shirt, feeling mean and small and stupid.  John was the one who told you to do it anyway.  "Hey, I'm sorry, okay?  Stop crying.  Let's catch more." 

" _Noooo_ ," she howls, eyes huge.  "I don't want you to smoosh anymore."

"I won't, okay?  I said I was sorry, geez.  Look..."  You run to the porch steps and come back with the empty peanut butter jar your mom gave you, the one with the holes punched in the plastic lid.  "We can make a night light, see?  They can still breathe and everything."

So the two of you run barefoot across the soft grass, hands outstretched and eye alert, waiting for the glowing embers of lightning bugs.  You laugh at Emma for being afraid they'll burn her hands, but then you show her how to trap them gently between cupped palms and lower them into the jar.  

At the end of the night, when she twists the lid off and watches the blinking bulbs ascend into freedom, she gives you a haughty look and insists it's because she doesn't need a night light, that she isn't scared of the dark (or anything else).  But you saw the troubled look on her face when she stared into the tiny jar, so you rub a little harder at your arm, hoping she's forgotten the earlier transgression.   

 

* * *

 

You're eight and there is  _no freaking way_ you're sitting with her on the bus.

"Just for the first week or two, until she settles in, Alex.  You know how Mr. Woodhouse worries."  

" _Mom_."  You infuse the word with about three extra syllables, that's how bad this is.  Not only is Emma a kindergarten baby, but she's a girl (a really  _girly_ one, besides), and she's sure to come to school with some super pink outfit and about a thousand glitter pens and you  _won't_ do it.

" _George Alexander Knightley,_ do  _not_ argue with me!"

Okay, so maybe you will.  

Of course it turns out to be unnecessary, because Emma stands beside you at the bus stop chattering on and on about how excited she is to finally be going to  _real_ school, and how she saw her classroom at orientation last week and already picked out her cubby and did you know they get to take turns taking home the class rabbit for the weekend?  

It's only when you've been on the bus for about ten minutes from school that Emma gets quiet, and you only notice because Emma is literally  _never_ quiet.  "What's wrong?" 

"Nothing."

"You scared or something?"

She scowls, eyes blazing with indignation.  " _No_."  She's quiet for a second.  "I just think I should go with you to your class.  I don't need to learn all the little kid stuff.  I can read all the books you do."

"Not _all_ of them."  With all the wisdom and authority afforded to you as an official second grader, you tell her,  "And anyway, kindergarten's, like, the most fun of all the grades.  You hardly have any work, there are centers, and you get snacks and playground time  _every day_."  

She's still frowning, and biting the inside of her thumb, which she only does when she's upset about something.

"You'll like it, Emma.  I promise."

Finally, she smiles a little.  "Pinky swear?"

She extends out her little finger in your direction, and you forget to see if anyone's looking before crooking your own around hers like you've done about a hundred times before.  "Pinky swear."

You pass the rest of the ride playing Rock, Paper, Scissors and I, Spy.  That afternoon, you wait for her under the flagpole before getting back on the bus to go home, and you're genuinely relieved that she seems so pleased with her first day.   

By the third day of school she's pushing past you in her hurry to get on the bus and run down the aisle to sit with a bunch of little girls from her class.  Which is obviously a gigantic relief.

 

* * *

 

You're nine and writing her name in thin air. 

Your gold sparkler twirls with a flourish as the faint glow of the **A** fades nanoseconds after you traced it.  She's looking at you in wonder, like you're actually magic, until her own sparkler gets low enough that she feels the heat on her fingers, and she yelps and drops it into the grass just before it burns out. 

"Geez, you're gonna set the yard on fire."  You stomp on the thin metal rod just to be sure.  "It's not gonna  _burn_ you.  It stops before that."

"I know," she says stubbornly, like she didn't just freak out about it.  "Here, light me a new one."

You stole the red plastic lighter your dad uses for the grill, and you glance around surreptitiously, making sure none of the adults gathered around the yard and pool for the neighborhood Fourth of July barbecue see you with it, before flicking the switch and holding the flame toward her.  She squeals in delight as gold light explodes between the two of you.

She repeats your trick, tracing the sparkler in the shape of your name, her lips moving with the letters as she does ( _A-L-E-X_ ).  Then, apropos of nothing, she says, "Guess what?"

"What?"

"I saw your brother kissing my sister."

You scrunch up your nose.  "For real?"

"Yeah.  Do you think it's a secret?"

"I dunno.  Whatever.  I guess they're old enough."  

She tilts her head at you.  "Do you have to be old?"  

You roll your eyes and sigh like she's just too young to get it.  

She drops her burnt out sparkler and puts her hands on her hips.  "Do you think it's fun?"

"Duh."

"Why  _duh_?"

"Because why do you think people do it all the time?"

"Do you want to try it?"  

Your whole face gets so hot that you're afraid you've held the sparkler too close again, but when you look it's already burnt out.  "With  _you_?"

"Yes.  John and Izzy are."

"So?"

"So, don't you want to see?  You just said it's probably fun."

You flick the lighter on and off, then mumble, "You aren't old enough."

Her eyes flare at that.  "Am so.  Watch."

You look up, startled, but there's no time to do anything before her hands are your shoulders and she's lifting herself up on her toes to press puckered lips against yours.  Her mouth is cold and she smells like chlorine.

"Hmmm..."  She steps aways, smacking her lips ostentatiously.  After a few moments of contemplation, she shrugs, like it was nothing much.  "I don't get it.  Must be different when you're boyfriend and girlfriend."

"Probably."

 

* * *

 

You're twelve and you don't have time to play with her.

"Alex!"  She practically lights up when she sees you, and goes skipping across her yard to your driveway.  "What are you doing?  Wanna come on over?  I got a new CD for the karaoke machine."

"I can't.  I've gotta get my homework done before I go to the basketball game tonight."

Her face falls.  She looks crushed.  "But my dad said you guys were having dinner with us tonight."

"My parents are.  And I guess John.  They're dropping me off at the game first."  You can't help but sound a little smug when you say it.  Middle school has ushered in a new level of freedom.

Emma, though, is unimpressed.  She shoots you a withering look.  "You're no fun anymore. You think you're so _cool_."

"I can't help we're not in the same school now."  

"In two years we will be."

"Yeah, but only for one year.  Then I go to high school."

" _Good_.  Cause I don't even wanna see you.  You're so boring now."

With that, she turns on her heel and stalks off into her house, leaving you with a tight stomach and a deep frown.  

You can't feel bad for long, though.  Kim's going to be at the game, and her best friend Nicole sent you a note saying Kim liked you, and by the end of the night you might even have a girlfriend.

 

* * *

 

You're fifteen and boys are starting to stare at her.

You tell yourself she's practically your little sister, and that's the reason you don't like it.  Protective instinct, that's all.  That's why there are fingernails digging into your lungs when you see her holding hands with some kid at the movies, why a monster claws its way up your throat when you see her kissing the same boy at the mall. 

 

* * *

 

You're sixteen and she's the first person you take for a licensed ride.

"Happy birthday, Alex Knightley," her voice sing songs giddily over the phone.  "Please tell me that's your present parked in your driveway."  

When you gets back from the DMV, your new ticket to freedom tucked safely in your wallet, she's already sitting on her porch and doesn't wait for an invitation before jumping gracefully into the passenger seat.  

You roll down the windows and turn up the radio.  You're both singing along with the music, her annoyingly skilled and you entirely tuneless.  You go through a drive through and get milkshakes - you don't have to ask what flavor she wants, it's always strawberry.  You drive nowhere and everywhere, sometimes chatting but more often not.  

Sometimes you glance over at her at the same time she's glancing at you, and the two of you exchange private, conspiratorial smiles and immediately giggle madly, like you can't quite believe this isn't against the rules.

 

* * *

 

You're eighteen and really, really hoping she doesn't cry.

She's on the edge of it already, her eyes big and glittering liked cracked glass.

"I can't believe you're leaving me in this town alone," she says with a theatrical sigh.  "What am I supposed to do without you?"  

"The same thing you always do."  You shift the box in your arms enough to bump your shoulder against hers.  "Singlehandedly control the social scene at Donwell High." 

A wet laugh leaps from her throat.  "True.  But it won't be the same without you providing constant approval and admiration."

"You mean without me there to keep you in check."  You give a mock shudder.  "Emma, uncensored.  I fear for those poor, innocent souls I'm leaving you with."

She tugs on your T-shirt, pushing her lower lip out just a little, and for a second you have a flash of her first day of kindergarten, Emma insisting she should be able to come to your classroom.  "Well I guess you'll just have to come home regularly to check in."

"My thoughts exactly," your mom puts in, passing by on her way to load another bag in the car.  "Emma, honey, are you sure you don't want to ride with us?"

"No, thanks.  Alex already told me he wouldn't let me decorate his dorm room, so there's really no point."

Five minutes later she's sniffling and blinking a lot, and you're pulling her in for a tight, lasting hug.  "Fall break isn't that far," you murmur against her ear.  "And I meant it about you coming to visit.  You'll want to start campus visits this year anyway."

She's smiling when she pulls away to look at you.  "Trying to lure me to choose the same college, Alex Knightley?  Already that worried about missing me?"

"Yes," you say simply, and immediately her face softens, tears sparkling on her eyelashes and her smile trembling like a fault line in an earthquake.  She lifts herself up on her tiptoes to kiss your cheek.  

"Be good."

"Yeah.  You, too."  You lift a skeptical eyebrow, and throw in an eye roll for good measure, and it makes her laugh, like you'd hoped it would.

You get in the car without saying the word  _goodbye._

 

* * *

 

You're twenty and legitimately worried she might deafen you.

It takes several eardrum shattering moments for Emma to stop the high pitched, squealing note and actually manage words, though they're still more of a shriek than anything else.  "I GOT IN, I GOT IN, _I GOT IN_."

You grin immediately.  "Hey!  Congratulations!  Emma, that's awesome." 

"You know what that means, Alex.  You have just one semester to prepare the campus for the arrival of Emma Woodhouse."

Your laughter is warm in your chest.  "I don't think that's possible."  _  
_

If you're being practical, this isn't going to be an easy change.  You've had two years to establish your life and routines here, and Emma Woodhouse doesn't slip seamlessly into anything - she shakes things up, rearranges and scatters.  Emma Woodhouse is a whirlwind.

But the thing is, you're a college kid who left most flickers of homesickness behind in the first two months of freshmen year...but even after two years, you're still somehow homesick for her.

You miss your best friend.  And you're really, really happy you're getting her back.

 

* * *

 

You're twenty-three and helping her stand up.

For a moment, _standing_ seems like the pinnacle of her abilities, even with assistance.  But after a second, she tightens her grip on your arm and takes shaky, tentative little newborn calf steps out of the cab and into your apartment building.

You gave up a girl for this.  A girl from your grad program who smiles a lot in your presence and finds excuses to touch your arm.  A girl who had seemed very, _very_ promising for tonight, yet you sent her home with her roommates to do this instead, even though Emma had roommates of her own accompanying the group.

If there's a choice, you can't help but choose her.

You help her take off her shoes but leave on the rest.  You present her with preemptive tylenol to swallow with water.  You put her in your bed.

"You can sleep here, too," she offers magnanimously, the words all random pitches and lengthened syllables.  

Bluntly, you reply, "I'm afraid to.  You may vomit."

Her face is pressed against your pillow, but she cuts her eyes at you and scowls.  "I would  _never_."  As if being sick while drunk is all a matter of decorum, completely within her control.

Still, you shrug and stretch out beside her.  "If you say so."

She makes a happy little humming sound that never fails to unstitch something in your chest.  "Oh, Alex Knightley.  You're my favorite."

Her drunk voice is the voice of a happy, sleepy little kid, and you can't help but grin.  "Favorite what?"

"Person."

"Yeah, Emma Woodhouse.  You're my favorite, too."

 

* * *

 

You're twenty-six years old and you're looking for Emma.

You've lost her for the last half hour of this New Year's Eve party you didn't even want to come to.  All night you've been tossing back champagne like it's gasoline on the pitiful fire of your courage, and by now your brain is fuzzy enough to find it _really_ absurd that yet another year has passed and you and Emma Woodhouse are still just friends.

"12, 11, 10, 9..."

The countdown has started and you're feeling a desperate and pulsing need to find her before the years click over.

Just when you're about to give up, someone moves out of your eyeline and you spot a flash of red that can only be her dress.  You push through the crowd toward her.

"5, 4, 3, 2, 1..."

_Ready or not, here I come._

But suddenly she's kissing someone else, someone you're 90% sure she didn't know at the beginning of the evening.  

So you pull up short and turn away, disappointed but not devastated.  You know this doesn't mean much, that Emma doesn't like relationships.

(Well, that's not entirely accurate.  She  _loves_ other peoples' relationships.  She just has no interest in being a participant.)  

(You've lost track of how long you've been hoping to be her exception.)

Sure enough, within an hour she's sidling up to you with that smile that's only yours.

It never takes her long to find you.

 

 

 

 


End file.
